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SYNOPSIS.
Enid Maitland, a frank, free and un
spoiled young Philadelphia girl, is taken
to the Colorado mountains by her uncle,
Robert Maitland. James Armstrong,
Maltland's protege, falls In love with her.
His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but
she hesitates, and Armstrong goes east
on business without a definite . answer.
Enid hears the story of a mining engi
neer, Newbold, whose wife fell off a cliff
and was so seriously hurt that he was
compelled to shoot her to prevent her be
ing eaten by wolves while he went for
help. Kirkby, the old guide who tells the
story, gives Enid a package of letters
which he says were found on the dead
woman’s body. She reads the letters and
at Kirkby’s request k^eps them. While
bathing in mountalng stream Enid is at
tacked by a bear, which Is mysteriously
shot. A storm adds to the girl's terror.
A sudden deluge transform brook into
raging torrent, which sweeps Enid into
gorge, where she is rescued by a moun
tain hermit after a thrilling experience.
Campers In great confusion upon discov
ing Enid’s absence when the storm
breaks. Maitland and Old Kirkby go in
search of the girl. Enid discovers that
her ankle is sprained and that she is un
able to walk. Her mysterious rescuer
carries her to his camp.
CHAPTER IX (Continued).
He did not make any apology for
his next action, he just stooped down
and, disregarding her faint protests
and objections, picked her up in his
arms. She was by no means a light
burden, and he did not run away with
her as the heroes of romances do.
But he was a man far beyond the
average in strength, and with a stout
heart and a resolute courage that had
always carried him successfully
through whatever he attempted, and
he had need of all his qualities, physi
cal and mental, before he finished
that awful journey.
The woman struggled a little at
first, then finally resigned herself to
_
He Stared at Her in Great Alarm.
the situation; indeed, she thought
swiftly, there was nothing else to do,
she had no choice, she could not have
been left alone there In the rocks in
that rain, she could not walk. He
was doing the only thing possible. The
compulsion of the Inevitable was upon
them both.
They went slowly, the man often
stopped for rest, at which times he
would seat her tenderly upon some
prostrate tree, or some rounded boul
der, until he was ready to resume his
task. He did not bother her with ex
planation, discussion or other conver
sation, for which she was most thank
ful. Once or twice during the slow
progress she tried to walk, but the
slightest pressure on her wounded
foot nearly caused her to faint. He
made no complaint about his burden
and she found it, after all, pleasant to
be upheld by such powerful arms;
she was so sick, so tired, so worn out,
and there was such assurance of
strength and safety in his flrm hold of
her.
By and by, in the last stage of their
journey, her head dropped on his
Shoulder and she actually fell into an
uneasy troubled sleep. He did not
know whether she slumbered or
whether she had fainted again. He
did not dare to stop to find out, his
strength was almost spent; in this last
effort the strain upon his muscles
was almost as great as it had been in
the whirlpool. For the second time
that day the sweat stood out on his
forehead, his legs trembled under him.
How be made the last five hundred
feet up the steep wall to a certain
broad shelf perhaps an acre In extent
where he had built bis hut among the
mountains, he never knew; but the
last remnant of his force was spent
when he finally opened the unlatched
door with his foot, carried her in the
log hut and laid her upon the bed or
bunk built against one wall of the
cabin.
Yet the way he put her down was
characteristic of the man. That last
vestige of strength had served him
well. He did not drop her as a less
thoughtful and less determined man
might have done, he laid her there as
gently and as tenderly as if she
weighed nothing, and as if he had car
ried her nowhere. So quiet and easy
was his handling of her that she did
not wake up at once.
So soon as she was out of his arms,
he stood up and stared at her in great
alarm, which soon gave way to reas
surance. She had not fainted, there
was a little tinge of color in her cheek
that had rubbed up against his rough
hunting coat; she was asleep, her reg
ular breathing told him that. Sleep
was of course the very best of medi
cines for her, and yet she should not
be allowed to sleep until she had got
rid of her wet clothing and until
something had been done for her
wounded foot. It was indeed an em
barrassing situation.
He surveyed her for a few moments
wondering how best to begin. Then
realizing the necessity for immediate
action, he bent over her and woke her
up. Again she stared at him in be
wilderment until he spoke.
“This is my house," he said, “we
are home.”
“Home!" sobbed the girl.
“Under shelter, then,” said the man.
“You are very tired and very sleepy,
but there is something to be done;,
you must take off those wet clothes
at once, you must have something to
eat, and I must have a look at that
foot, and then you can have your
sleep out.”
The girl stared at him, his program,
if a radical one under the circum
stances, was nevertheless a rational
one, Indeed the only one. How was it
to be carried out? The man easily
divined her thoughts.
“There is another room in this
house, a store room. I cook In there,"
he said. “I am going in there now to
get you something to eat; meanwhile
you must undress yourself and go to
bed.”
He went to a rude set of box-like
shelves draped with a curtain, appar
ently bis own handiwork, against the
wall, and brought from it a long r^id
somewhat shapeless woolen gown.
“You can wear this to sleep In.” he
continued. “First of all, though, I am
going to have a look at that foot."
He bent down to where her wound
ed foot lay extended on the bed.
“Walt,” said the girl, lifting herself
on her arm, and as she did so he lift
ed his head and answered her direct
gaze with his own. “I am a woman,
absolutely alone, entirely at your
mercy; you are stronger than I, I
have no choice but to do what you
bid me. And in addition to the nat
ural weakness of my sex I am the
more helpless from this foot. What
do you intend to do with me? How
do you mean to treat me?”
It was a bold, /a splendid question,
and it evoked the answer it merited.
“As God is my judge," said the man
quietly, “just as you ought to be
treated, as I would want another to
treat my mother, or my sister, or my
wife” —she noticed how curiously his
lips suddenly tightened at that word —
“if I had one. I never harmed a wom
an in my life,” he continued more
earnestly, “only one. that is,” he cor
rected himself, and once again she
marked that peculiar contraction of
the lips. “And I could not help that,"
he added.
“I trust you,” said the girl at last,
after gazing at him long and hard as
. ’if to search out the secrets of his very
, soul. “You have saved my life and
things dearer will be safe with you.
I have to trust you.”
“I hope,” came the quick comment,
“that it is not only for that. I don't
want to be trusted Upon compulsion.”
' “You must have fought terribly for
my life in the flood,” was the answer.
“I can remember what it was now,
and you carried me over the rocks
and the mountains without faltering.
Only a man could do what you have
done. I trust you anyway.”
“Thank ybu,” said the man briefly
as he bent over the injured foot again.
The boot laced up the front, the
short skirt left all plainly visible.
With deft fingers he undid the sodden
knot and unlaced it, then stood hesi
tatingly for a moment
“I don’t like to cut your only pair
of shoes,” he said as he made a
slight motion to draw it off, and then
observing the spasm of pain, stopped.
“Needs must,” he continued, taking
out his knife and slitting the
leather.
He did it very carefully so as not
to ruin the boot beyond repair, and
finally succeeded In getting it off
without giving her too much pain.
And she was not so tired or so miser
able as to be unaware of his gentle
ness. His manner, matter of fact
business like, if he had been a doctor
one would have called it professional,
distinctly pleased her in this trying
and unusual position. Her stocking
was stained with blood. The man rose
to his feet, took from a rude home
made chair a light Mexican blanket
and laid it considerately across the
girl.
“Now if you can manage to get off
your stocking yourself, I will see what
can be done,” he said, turning away.
It was the work of a few seconds
for her to comply with his request.
Hanging the wet stocking carefully
over a chair back, he drew back the
blanket a little and carefully inspect
ed the poor little foot. He saw at
once that it was not an ordinary
sprained ankle, but it seemed to him
that her foot had been caught be
tween two tossing logs, and had been
badly bruised. It was very painful,
but would not take so long to heal as
a sprain. The little foot, normally so
white, was now black and blue and
the skin had been roughly torn and
broken. He brought a basin of cold
water and a towel and washed off the
blood, the girl fighting down the pain
and successfully stifling any outcry.
“Now,” he said, “you must put on
this gown and get into bed. By the
time you are ready for it I will have
some broth for you and then we will
bandage that foot. I shall not come
tn here for some time, you will be
quite alone and safe."
He turned and left the room, shut
ting the door after him as he went
out. For a second time that day Enid
Maitland undressed herself and this
time nervously and in great haste.
She was almost too excited and ap
prehensive to recall the painful cir
cumstances attendant upon her first
disrobing. She said she trusted the
man absolutely, yet she would not
have been human' if she had not
looked most anxiously toward that
closed door. He made plenty of noise
in the other room, bustling about as
if to reassure her.
She could not rest the weight of
her body on her left foot, and getting
rid of her wet clothes was a some
what slow process in spite of her
hurry, made more so by her extreme
nervousness. The gown he gave her
was far too big for her, but soft and
•warm and exquisitely clean. It drap
ed her slight figure completely. Leav
ing her sodden garments where they
had fallen, for she was not equal to
anything else, she wrapped herself in
the folds of the big gown and man
aged to get into bed. For all its rude
appearance it was a very comfortable
sleeping place; there were springs and
a good mattress. The unbleached
sheets were clean, although they had
been rough dried; there was a deli
cious sense of comfort and rest In
her position. She had scarcely com
, posed herself when he knocked loud
• upon her door.
“May I come in?” he asked.
i When she bade him enter she saw
■ be had in his hand a saucepan full of
: some steaming broth. She wondered
: how he had made it In such a hurry,
r but after he poured it into a granite
ware cup and offered it to her, she
, took it without question. It was thick,
warming and nourishing. He stood by
i her and insisted that she take more
> and more. Finally she rebelled.
• “Well, perhaps that will do for to
’ night,” he said; now let’s have a look
i at your foot.”
She observed that he had laid on
• the table a long roll of white cloth;
> she could not know that he had torn
- up one of his sheets to make ban
i dages, but so it was. He took the lit
! tie foot tenderly in his hands.
’ “I am going to hurt you,” he said.
“I am going to find out if there is
. anything more than a bruise, any
i bones broken.”
' There was no denying that he did
I pain her exquisitely.
“I can’t help it,” he said as she
cried aloud, “I have got to see what’s
, the matter. I am almost through
now.”
’ “Go on, I can bear it," she said
’ faintly. “I feel so much better, any
way, now that I am dry and warm.”
. “So far as I can determine,” said
i the man at last, “it is only a bad, ugly
bruise; the skin is torn, ft has been
i battered, but it is neither sprained
nor broken, and I don’t think it is go
ing to be very serious. Now I am go
ing to bathe it in the hottest water
i you can bear, and then I will bandage
• it and let you go to sleep?’
He went out and came back with a
■ kettle of boiling water, with which he
laved again and again the poor, torn,
■ battered little member. Never In her
. life had anything been so grateful as
these repeated applications of hot wa
ter. After a while he applied a heal
ing lotion of some kind, then be took
his long roll of bandage and wound
it dexterously around her foot, no’
drawing it too close to prevent circu
lation, but just tight enough for sup
1 ! port, then as he finished she drew it
: back beneath the cover.
“Now,” said he, “there is nothing
more I can do for you tonight, is
there?”
“Nothing.”
“I want you to go to sleep now, you
will be perfectly safe here. I am go
ing down the canon to search ”
“No,” said the girl apprehensively.
“I dare not be left alone here; be
sides I know how dangerous it would
be for you to try to descend the canon
in this rain; you have risked enough
tor me. you must wait until the morn
ing; I shall feel better then.”
“But think of the anxiety of your
friends.”
“I can’t help it,” was the nervous
reply. “I am afraid to be left alone
here at night.”
Her voice trembled; he was fearful
she would have a nervous breakdown
“Very well,” he said soothingly, “I
will not leave you till the morning."
“Where will you stay?”
“I’ll make a shakedown for myself
in the store room,” he answered, “I
shall be right within call at any time.”
It had grown dark outside by this
time and the two in the log hut could
barely see each other.
"I think I shall light the fire.” con
tinued the man, “it will be sort of
company for you and it gets cold up
here nights at this season. I shouldn't
wonder if this rain turned into snow.
Besides, it will dry your clothes for
you.”
Then he went over to the fireplace,
struck a match, touched it to the
kindling under the huge logs already
prepared, and in a moment a cheerful
blaze was roaring up through the
chimney. Then he picked up from the
floor where she had cast them in a
heap her bedraggled garments. He
straightened them out as best be
could, hung them over the backs of
chairs and the table, which he drew
as near to the Are as was safe. Hav
ing completed this unwonted task he
turned to the woman who had watch
ed him curiously and nervously the
while.
“Is there anything more that I can
do for you?"
“Nothing. You have been as kind
and as gentle as you were strong and
brave."
He threw his hand out with a depre
cating gesture.
“Are you quite comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“And your foot?"
“Seems very much better.”
“Good night, then. I will call you |
in the morning."
“Good night,” said the girl grate- j
fully, “and God bless you for a true
and noble man.”
CHAPTER X.
On the Two Sides of the Door.
The cabin contained a large and a
small room. In the wall between
them there was a doorway closed by
an ordinary batten door with a wood-
en latch and no lock. Closed it served
to hide the occupant of one room
from the view of the other, otherwise
it was but a feeble protection. Even
had it possessed a lock, a vigorous
man could have burst It through in a
moment.
These thoughts did not come very
clearly to Enid Maitland. Few
thoughts of any kind came to her.
Where she lay she could see plainly
the dancing light of the glorious fire.
She was warm, the deftly wrapped
bandage, the healing lotion upon her
foot, had greatly relieved the pain in
that wounded member. The bed was
hard but comfortable, much more so
than the sleeping bags to which of
late she had been accustomed.
Few women had gone through such
experiences, mental and physical, as
had befallen her within the last few
hours and lived to tell the story. Had
it not been for the exhaustive strains
of body and spirit to which she had
been subjected, her mental faculties
would have been on the alert and the
strangeness of her unique position
would have made her so nervous that
she could not have slept.
For the time being, however, the
physical demands upon her entity
were paramount; she was dry, she
was warm, she was fed, she was free
from anxiety and she was absolutely
unutterably weary. Her thoughts
were vague, inchoate, unconcentrated.
The fire wavered before her eyes, she
closed them in a few moments and
did not open them.
Without a thought, without a care,
she fell asleep. Her repose was com
plete, not a dream even disturbed the
profound slumber into which she
C /Ai
11) fin
1 ■
■LtA. II
Bu- ~
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■ 11 1 1 HB
He Walked Nervously Up and Down.
sank. Pretty picture she made; her
head thrown backward, her golden
hair roughly dried and quickly plait
ed in long braids, one of which fell
along the pillow while the other
curled lovingly around her neck. Her
face in the natural light would have
looked pallid from what she had gone
i through, but the fire cast red glows
upon it; the fitful light flickered
across her countenance and some
times deep shadows unrelieved ac
centuated the paleness born of ber
sufferings.
There is no light that plays so
many tricks with the Imagination, or
that so stimulates the fancy as the
light of an open fire. In its sudden
outbursts it sometimes seems to add
life touches to the sleeping and the
dead. Had there been any eye to see
this girl, she would have made a de
lightful picture in the warm glow
from the stone hearth. There were
no eyes to look, however, save those
which belonged to the man on the
other side of the door.
On the hither side of that door In
the room where the fire burned on the
hearth, there was rest in the heart of
the occupant: on the farther side
where the fire only burned in the
heart, there was tumult. Not outward
and visible, but inward and spiritual,
and yet there was no lack of apparent
manifestation of the turmoil in the
man’s souL
Albeit the room was smaller than
the other, it was still of a good size.
He walked nervously up and down
from one end to the other as cease
lessly as a wild animal impatient of
captivity stalks the narrow limits of
bls contracted cage. The even tenor
of his life had suddenly been diverted.
The ordinary sequence of his days
had been abruptly changed. The pri
vacy of five years which he had hoped
and dreamed might exist as long as
he, had been rudely broken in upon.
Humanity, which he had avoided,
from which he bad fled, which he had
cast away forever, had found him.
Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit! And, 10,
his departures were all in vain! The
world with all its grandeur and Its in
significance, with all its powers and
its weaknesses, with all its opportu
nities and its obligations, with all its
joys and its sorrows, had knocked at
his door; and that the knocking hand
was that of a woman, but added to
his perplexity and to his dismay.
He had cherished a dream that he
could live to himself alone with but a
memory to bear him company, and
from that dream he had been thun
derously awakened. Everything was
changed. What had once been easy
had now become impossible. He
might send her away, but though he
swore her to secrecy she would have
to tell her story and something of his;
the world would learn some of it and
seek him out with insatiable curios
ity to know the rest.
Eyes as keen as his would present
ly search and scrutinize the moun
tains where he had roamed alone.
They would see what he had seen,
find what he had found. Mankind,
■ gold-lusting, would swarm and hive
i upon the hills and tight and love and
breed and die. Great God!
He could of course move on, but
■ where? And went he whithersoever
■ he might, he would now of necessity
i carry with him another memory
i which would not dwell within his
mind In harmony with the memory
which until that day had been para
mount there alone.
Slowly, laboriously, painfully, he
had built his house upon the sand,
and the winds had blown and the
floods had come, not only in a literal
' but in spiritual significance, and in
one day that house had fallen. He
stood amid the wrecked remains of it
trying to recreate it, to endow once
1 more with the fitted precision at the
past the shapeless broken units of the
fabric of his fond imagination.
While he resented the fierce, sav
age, passionate intensity the interrup
tion of this woman into his life.
While he throbbed with equal inten
sity and almost as much passion at
the thought of her.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
w
She Old.
"Do you, my sisters,” demanded the
exhorter, "draw the line between the
clean and the soiled in life?"
“I do,” replied one member of the
! flock, timidly; "every Monday moms
j Ing.”